Unconditional Surrender

by Evelyn Waugh

  Guy had just received a signal for recall. The force was being renamed and re-organized. He was to report as soon as feasible to Bari. Word had gone to Belgrade, he supposed, that he was no longer persona grata.

  He greeted Mme Kanyi with warm pleasure. ‘Let me carry that.’

  ‘No, please. It is better not.’

  ‘I insist.’

  Mme Kanyi looked about her. No one was in sight. She let him take the load and carry it towards her hut.

  ‘You have not gone with the others?’

  ‘No, my husband is needed.’

  ‘And you don’t wear your greatcoat.’

  ‘Not out of doors. I wear it at night in the hut. The coats and boots make everyone hate us, even those who had been kind before.’

  ‘But partisan discipline is so firm. Surely there was no danger of violence?’

  ‘No, that was not the trouble. It was the peasants. The partisans are frightened of the peasants. They will settle with them later, but at present they are dependent on them for food. Our people began to exchange things with the peasants. They would give needles and thread, razors, things no one can get, for turkeys and apples. No one wants money. The peasants preferred bartering with our people to taking the partisans’ bank-notes. That was what made the trouble.’

  ‘Where have the others gone?’

  She spoke a name which meant nothing to Guy. ‘You have not heard of that place? It is twenty miles away. It is not a place of good repute. It is where the Germans and Ustachi made a camp. They kept the Jews and gypsies and communists and royalists there, to work on the canal. Before they left they killed what were left of the prisoners – not many. Now the partisans have found new inhabitants for it.’

  They had reached the hut and Guy entered to place his load in a corner near the little stove. It was the first and last time he crossed the threshold. He had a brief impression of orderly poverty and then was outside in the snow. ‘Listen, Signora,’ he said. ‘Don’t lose heart. I am being recalled to Bari. As soon as the road is clear I shall be leaving. When I get there I promise I’ll raise Cain about this. You’ve plenty of friends there and I’ll explain the whole situation to them. We’ll get you all out, I promise.’

  As they stood on the little patch before the door which Mme Kanyi had cleared of snow they saw through the leafless shrubs the lurking figure of Bakic.

  ‘You see you have been followed here.’

  ‘He can’t make any trouble.’

  ‘Not for you, perhaps. You are leaving. There was a time when I thought that all I needed for happiness was to leave. Our people feel that. They must move away from evil. Some hope to find homes in Palestine. Most look no further than Italy – just to cross the water, like crossing the Red Sea.

  ‘Is there any place that is free from evil? It is too simple to say that only the Nazis wanted war. These communists wanted it too. It was the only way in which they could come to power. Many of my people wanted it, to be revenged on the Germans, to hasten the creation of the national state. It seems to me there was a will to war, a death wish, everywhere. Even good men thought their private honour would be satisfied by war. They could assert their manhood by killing and being killed. They would accept hardships in recompense for having been selfish and lazy. Danger justified privilege. I knew Italians – not very many perhaps – who felt this. Were there none in England?’

  ‘God forgive me,’ said Guy. ‘I was one of them.’

  5

  GUY had come to the end of the crusade to which he had devoted himself on the tomb of Sir Roger. His life as a Halberdier was over. All the stamping of the barrack square and the biffing of imaginary strongholds were finding their consummation in one frustrated act of mercy. He left Begoy without valediction save for the formal application at general headquarters for leave to travel. He took his small staff with him. His last act was to send by the hand of his orderly the pile of illustrated magazines to Madame Kanyi. He gave the widows such remains of his stores as the Squadron Leader did not require. The widows wept. The Squadron Leader expressed the hope that he, too, would soon get an order of recall.

  The road to the coast was free of enemy and passable by jeep. It led through the desolate Lika where every village was ravaged and roofless, down into the clement coast of the Adriatic. Forty-eight hours after leaving Begoy Guy and his men were under the walls of Diocletian at Split, where they found an English cruiser in harbour, whose company were forbidden to land. Partisans had the shore batteries trained on her. This, more than anything he had seen in Jugoslavia, impressed the sergeant. ‘Who’d have thought the Navy would stand for that, sir? It’s politics, that’s what it is.’

  There was a British liaison officer at Split who gave him an order that had come, to drive on to Dubrovnik where a small British force, mostly of field artillery, had been landed and then held impotent. He was posted there as liaison officer between this force and the partisans.

  His task was to hear from the partisan commander allegations of ‘incorrect behaviour’ by the British troops and convey them to the puzzled brigadier in command who had come under the supposition that he was a welcome ally; also to hear demands for supplies – the contrast between the fully equipped invaders and the ragged partisans was remarked by the townspeople – and to receive clandestine visits from civilians of various nationalities who wished to enrol themselves as displaced persons. On his first day he made a signal: Situation of displaced persons in Begoy area desperate, and received in answer: Appropriate authority informed, but his further lists of exiles received no acknowledgement.

  At length, in mid-February the British force withdrew, Guy with the advance-party. He was set ashore at Brindisi and drove up to Bari just a year after he had first gone there. The almond was again in flower. He reported to Major Marchpole. He dined at the club.

  ‘Everything is packing up here,’ said the Major. ‘I shall stay on as long as I can. The Brigadier has gone already. Joe Cattermole is in charge. You’ll be returning to UK as soon as you want.’

  It was from Cattermole that he learned that the Jews of Begoy had escaped. A private charitable organization in America had provided a convoy of new Ford trucks, shipped them to Trieste, driven through the snow of Croatia, and, leaving the trucks as a tip for the partisans, brought the exiles to Italy. It was indeed as though the Red Sea had miraculously drawn asunder and left a dry passage between walls of water.

  Guy got permission to visit them. They were back behind barbed wire in a stony valley near Lecce. With them were four or five hundred others collected from various prisons and hiding places, all old and all baffled, all in army greatcoats and Balaclava helmets.

  ‘I can’t see the point of their being here,’ said the Commandant. ‘We feed them and doctor them and house them. That’s all we can do. No one wants them. The Zionists are only interested in the young. I suppose they’ll just sit here till they die.’

  ‘Are they happy?’

  ‘They complain the hell of a lot but then they’ve the hell of a lot to complain about. It’s a lousy place to be stuck in.’

  ‘I’m particularly interested in a pair called Kanyi.’

  The Commandant looked down his list. ‘Not here,’ he said.

  ‘Good. That probably means they got off to Australia all right.’

  ‘Not from here, old man. I’ve been here all along. No one has ever left.’

  ‘Could you make sure? Anyone in the Begoy draft would know about them.’

  The Commandant sent his interpreter to inquire while he took Guy into the shed he called his mess, and gave him a drink. Presently the man returned. ‘All correct, sir. The Kanyis never left Begoy. They got into some kind of trouble there and were jugged.’

  ‘May I go with the interpreter and ask about it?’

  ‘By all means, old man. But aren’t you making rather heavy weather of it? What do two more or less matter?’

  Guy went into the compound with the interpreter. Some of the Jews recognized h
im and crowded round him with complaints and petitions. All he could learn about the Kanyis was that they had been taken off the truck by the partisan police just as it was about to start.

  He took the question to Major Marchpole.

  ‘We don’t really want to bother the Jugs any more. They really cooperated very well about the whole business. Besides the war’s over now in that part. There’s no particular point in moving people out. We’re busy at the moment moving people in.’ This man was in fact at that moment busy dispatching royalist officers – though he did not know it – to certain execution.

  Guy spent his last days in Bari revisiting the offices where by signal he had begun his work of liberation. But this time he received little sympathy. The Jewish office showed little interest in him when they understood that he had not come to sell them illicit arms. They showed no interest in the Kanyis when they learned they were bound for Australia and not for Zion. ‘We must first set up the State,’ they said. ‘Then it will be a refuge for all. First things first.’

  An old Air Force acquaintance from Alexandrian days had a flat in Posillipo and asked Guy to stay. For a journey such as his it was a matter of being fitted into an aeroplane at the last moment when someone more important failed.

  On the day before he was due to leave for Naples, he was accosted by Gilpin who said: ‘Before you leave I shall want your security pass back.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost it.’

  ‘That will be very awkward.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Guy. ‘I have a friend in Air Priorities.’

  Gilpin scowled. ‘I hear you’ve been making inquiries about a couple named Kanyi.’

  ‘Yes, I’m interested in them.’

  ‘I thought you might be. It didn’t sound like Frank de Souza exactly.’

  ‘What didn’t?’

  ‘The confidential report. The woman was the mistress of a British Liaison Officer.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘He was seen leaving her home when her husband was away on duty. They were a thoroughly shady couple. The husband was guilty of sabotaging the electric light plant. A whole heap of American counter-revolutionary propaganda was found in their room. The whole association was most compromising to the Mission. It’s lucky Cape had handed over to Joe before we got the report. You might have found yourself on a charge. But Joe’s not vindictive. He just moved you where you couldn’t do any harm. Though I may say that some of the names you sent us as displaced persons at Dubrovnik are on the black list.’

  ‘What happened to the Kanyis?’

  ‘What do you suppose? They were tried by a Peoples’ Court. You may be sure justice was done.’

  Once before in his military career Guy had been tempted to strike a brother officer – Trimmer at Southsands. The temptation was stronger now, but before he had done more than clench his fist, before he had raised it, the sense of futility intervened. He turned and left the office.

  Next day he settled in Posillipo.

  ‘For a chap who’s on his way home you don’t seem very cheerful,’ said his host and then changed the subject, for he had had many men through his hands who were returning to problems more acute than any they had faced on active service.

  EPILOGUE

  Festival of Britain

  IN 1951, to celebrate the opening of a happier decade, the government decreed a Festival. Monstrous constructions appeared on the south bank of the Thames, the foundation stone was solemnly laid for a National Theatre, but there was little popular exuberance among the straitened people and dollar-bearing tourists curtailed their visits and sped to the countries of the Continent where, however precarious their condition, they ordered things better.

  There were few private parties. Two of these were held in London on the same June evening.

  Tommy Blackhouse had returned to England in May. He was retiring from the army with many decorations, a new, pretty wife, and the rank of major-general. In the last years he had advanced far beyond his commando into posts of greater and greater eminence and responsibility, never seeming to seek promotion, never leaving rancour behind him among those he surpassed; but his first command lay closest to his heart. Meeting Bertie in Bellamy’s he had suggested a reunion dinner. Bertie agreed that it would be agreeable. ‘It would mean an awful lot of organizing though,’ said this one-time adjutant. It was left for Tommy, as always, to do the work.

  The officers who had assembled at Mugg were not so scattered as those of other war-time units. Most of them had been together in prison. Luxmore had made an escape. Ivor Claire had spent six months in Burma with the Chindits, had done well, collected a DSO and an honourably incapacitating wound. He was often in Bellamy’s now. His brief period of disgrace was set aside and almost forgotten.

  ‘You’re going to invite everyone?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Everyone I can find. What was the name of that old Halberdier? Jumbo someone? We’ll ask the sea-weed eater. I don’t somehow think he’ll come. Guy Crouchback of course.’

  ‘Trimmer?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  But Trimmer had disappeared. All Tommy’s adroit inquiries failed to find any trace of him. Some said he had jumped ship in South Africa. Nothing was known certainly. Fifteen men eventually assembled including Guy.

  The second, concurrent festivity was given in part by Arthur Box-Bender. He had lost his seat in parliament in 1945. He rarely came to London in the succeeding years but that June evening he was induced to pay his half share in a small dance given in an hotel for his eighteen-year-old daughter and a friend of hers. For an hour or two he stood with Angela greeting the ill-conditioned young people who were his guests. Some of the men wore hired evening-dress; others impudently presented themselves in dinner-jackets and soft shirts. He and his fellow host had been at pains to find the cheapest fizzy wine in the market. Feeling thirsty, he sauntered down Piccadilly and turned into St James’s. Bellamy’s alone retained some traces of happier days.

  Elderberry was alone in the middle hall reading Air Marshal Beech’s reminiscences. He, also, had lost his seat. His successful opponent, Gilpin, was not popular in the House but he was making his mark and had lately become an under-secretary. Elderberry had no habitation outside London. He had no occupation there. Most of his days and evenings were passed alone in this same armchair in Bellamy’s.

  He looked disapprovingly at Box-Bender’s starched front.

  ‘You still go out?’

  ‘I had to give a party tonight for my daughter.’

  ‘Ah, something you had to pay for? That’s different. It’s being asked I like. I’m never asked anywhere now.’

  ‘I don’t think you would have liked this party.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. But I used to get asked to dinners – embassies and that kind of thing. Well, so did you. There was a lot of rot talked but it did get one through the evening. Everything’s very quiet here now.’

  This judgement was immediately rebutted by the descent of the Commando dinner party who stumbled noisily down the staircase and into the billiard room.

  Guy paused to greet his brother-in-law.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to our dance,’ said Box-Bender. ‘It is very small, for young people. I didn’t suppose you’d want to come. Didn’t know you ever came to London as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I don’t, Arthur. I’m just up to see lawyers. We’ve sold the Castello, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Who on earth can afford to buy property in Italy now? Americans, I suppose.’

  ‘Not at all. One of our own countrymen who can’t afford to live in England – Ludovic.’

  ‘Ludovic?’

  ‘The author of The Death Wish. You must have heard of it.’

  ‘I think Angela read it. She said it was tosh.’

  ‘It sold nearly a million copies in America and they’ve just filmed it. He’s a fellow I came across during the war.’

  ‘One of your party in there?’

  ‘No. We aren
’t quite Ludovic’s sort of party.’

  ‘Well, the Castello should be just the place for a literary man. Clever of you to find a buyer.’

  ‘That was done for me by another fellow I met in the war. You may remember him. An American called Padfield. He used to belong here. He’s become Ludovic’s factotum now.’

  ‘Padfield? No. Can’t say I remember him. How’s everything at Broome?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘Domenica all right, and the children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Farm paying?’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘Wish mine was. Well, give them all my regards.’ A voice called, ‘Guy, come and play slosh.’

  ‘Coming, Bertie.’

  When he had gone, Elderberry said: ‘That’s your brother-in-law, isn’t it? He’s putting on weight. Didn’t I hear something rather sad about him during the war?’

  ‘His wife was killed by a bomb.’

  ‘Yes, that was it. I remember now. But he’s married again?’

  ‘Yes. First sensible thing he’s ever done. Domenica Plessington, Eloise’s girl. Eloise looked after the baby when Guy was abroad. Domenica got very fond of it. A marriage was the obvious thing. I think Eloise deserves some credit in arranging it. Now they’ve two boys of their own. When Domenica isn’t having babies she manages the home farm at Broome. They’ve settled in the agent’s house. They aren’t at all badly off. Angela’s uncle Peregrine left his little bit to the child. Wasn’t such a little bit either.’

  Elderberry remembered that Box-Bender had had trouble with his own son. What had it been? Divorce? Debt? No, something odder than that. He’d gone into a monastery. With unusual delicacy Elderberry did not raise the question. He merely said: ‘So Guy’s happily settled?’